


Hallucinations

by strawberrywine17



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bittersweet, Gift Fic, Hallucinations, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, Pre-HLV, or at least speculatively unrequited, the shipping is mostly unrequited
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-27
Updated: 2016-12-27
Packaged: 2018-09-12 12:59:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,680
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9072700
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strawberrywine17/pseuds/strawberrywine17
Summary: Not-John, no matter how perfect he seemed, would never be John. And in the end, he’d rather spend another hour with angry, hurt, disappointed John than a lifetime with loving Not-John.“Have you come for me too?”





	

**Author's Note:**

> This was a Christmas gift fic for my dear friend!! She asked for bittersweet Johnlock and, well, that's what she got. It's a day late, but I hope you like it all the same, Cam! And the same for everyone else out there :) Enjoy!

“Sherlock, how many more times are we going to do this?”

Bleary, bloodshot blue eyes fluttered open to see the man kneeling beside him. Sherlock couldn’t make himself care about the way the edges of him seemed to blur. He just smiled, languid and slow. “John.” His hand reached up, carding through coarse, greying golden hair.

John closed his eyes partially at the touch, leaning into it, but he would not be discouraged. “I asked you a question,” he prodded, reaching up to press cool fingers against the faint divot of Sherlock’s wrist. “Answer me, love. How many more times?”

“However many times I want.” The words fell from his pale lips with all the strength of a whisper, a secret for the two of them to share. A promise, maybe, of the darkest kind. But at least it was the truth.

“You can't keep doing this.” His fingertips trailed down, brushing against the pale expanse of his arm, skin thin and dotted like ink on paper. Sherlock’s smile didn't fade, not as that gentle touch traced over track marks, rubbed away the soreness left in his bicep from the rubber tourniquet. “I don’t like it. You know that, and yet you keep doing it. Why is that?”

The man shrugged. He kept his arm somewhat suspended in the air, allowing for the touch, unafraid to let the doctor see and feel the evidence of his use. In any other circumstances he would have reacted awfully, would have pulled away and refused to be inspected. But John wasn’t looking to give him an examination. It seemed to Sherlock that if he asked, by the way the man was acting, that should he ask him how many needles he’d ever used, John would be able to pinpoint the exact number. It appeared so reasonable, in fact, so intriguing and without a shadow of a doubt, that he almost did just that. It was only John’s look and a reminder of his previous stubbornness in getting a reply that he bit his tongue against it. “Because I want to see you, John. And if this is the only way you will come to me, then why should I refuse you?”

A sigh slipped from him. Sherlock reached up to trace those lips with his fingers, tracing the gentle frown with a ghost’s caress. John didn’t deny it of him. Once his hand had moved to the corner of his mouth, he spoke, the bony appendage bobbing ever so slightly to accommodate it. “That doesn’t mean I like it.” His voice was tinged with disappointment, sadness even.

Sherlock looked up. He gazed into those gentle blue eyes, drawing him in, trying to drown him in the most pleasant way possible. There was little he wouldn’t give to let that happen. He would have welcomed it. What a perfect death it would be.

“Of course you don't, John,” he said, dragging himself out of the depth of his eyes. “But I have to. It’s the only way I can…” His words trailed off. It was too painful to say it; too much to allow that sentence to taste the heavy, stale air around him.

Thankfully, John didn't need an explanation. He didn't need one. Sherlock’s fingers fell from the other man’s lips at the same time the hand at the crook of his elbow drifted up. The tingly, sweet slide of John’s skin against his etched a line down his cheek, the back of his knuckles soft and gentle.

“I know, love. I know.”

The detective reached up. He caught John’s hand in his own and pressed it flat to his cheek, the cool palm cradling him with immeasurable care. His eyes fluttered but he refused to shut them. Seeing John- it was the whole reason behind this. It would all be for naught should he close them and let the man’s visage slip away from him. Like smoke from an extinguished candle, or the fog of a soft morning, it would all eventually burn away. John’s face would fade as the last seams of a good dream, allowing for horrible reality to set.

The thought of that inevitable outcome settled heavily on Sherlock’s chest. The weight of it was incredible; he held a little tighter to John’s hand when the first shudder passed through him. Then another, another, another until his ribs felt like they were to cave in, breaths little more than ragged gasps passing his lips, sobs trying to rip from his throat.

John’s other hand suddenly alit on his other cheek. His thumbs rubbed at the skin, trying unsuccessfully to brush away the tears, following the movement of Sherlock’s head rocking gently from side to side on the thin mattress.

“Sherlock, hey, love, don't do that.” Maybe it was selfish, but Sherlock couldn't stop himself from taking some form of happiness at the way the doctor’s voice was colored with concern. “It's okay. It's going to be okay. Just look at me. Sherlock.” When had he closed his eyes? He fought to open them through the tears. “There you are. It's going to be just fine. Have I ever lied to you?”

“N… N-no,” he gasped out, moving to grab John’s wrists in his hands. He couldn’t feel his pulse, at the wrong angle to do so, and unfortunately left without that small comfort.

“Exactly. So just take a few deep breaths for me. Come on. I know you can do it.” John moved closer. The weight on his lungs was replaced with that of John’, fitting his body between the detective’s legs and laying down on his chest. “Follow me,” he instructed, and Sherlock could feel as ribs expanded, paused, then shrunk. It wasn't easy to sync to the rhythm but he did try. “Good. That's good, love. Keep breathing.”

“I’m sorry,” he sobbed, turning his head to hide his eyes in John’s hand. “I’m so sorry, John. I-I’m so sorry.” The doctor didn’t say anything for a long time. He simply laid on top of the detective, cupped his cheeks, kept his breathing even for him. There was nothing he _could_ do, and Sherlock knew he knew that. This- this right here, it was as close to fixing things as he could possibly manage. Sherlock commended him for it.

Eventually, however, the tears ran out. He was left with soft hiccups, his body settling where it lay further. It was as though his bones themselves sunk down into the ground, half submerging his body to become a part of the earth itself. It was comfortable, in a way. Like he could stay there and spend the rest of his days, watch the world crumble around him, never have to worry about anything anymore. But that wasn’t how things were. Life was never that easy.

John had not moved in that time. He stayed as he was, gentle fingers stroking lines and caresses over the young man’s cheek, down his throat, across his chest. The touches had become increasingly lighter and lighter. Sherlock didn’t have to look at him to know what that meant, all too used to it by now, but look he did. The doctor’s eyes were soft with concern, partially closed with regret so heavy it apparently preyed on his eyelids. John was regretful because-

“I have to go now, love.”

-because he never did like leaving. Sherlock couldn’t blame him. He didn’t want John to leave either, but that was alright. “You’ll be back,” he said, voice rough and gravelly with the shed tears. Not a drop of uncertainty colored his words.

There it was again. That bittersweet smile, the one that curled John’s lips up but dipped the corners of his eyes down. Sherlock hated that smile, but he would search it out again and again, time after time, if this was the only way he could manage to see him. For John, he would do anything. “I know,” he murmured, infinitely sad. “I know.” John started to get up. He put his hands on either side of Sherlock’s head and began to push himself off.

Sherlock, however, darted a hand out. Slender fingers curled around a tan wrist. “One time?” he asked, breath hitching. “Just one more time? And then you can leave.”

“Sherlock,” John admonished lightly. “We can’t keep doing _that_. It won’t do you any favors. You and I both know that, love.”

“Please.”

John could never refuse a plea like that. Sherlock watched his eyes close for just a moment, his shoulders slumping in defeat. “Just this one more time,” he said, despite the fact the both of them knew that it would happen again the next time they saw each other. It was the habit; the routine. The goodbye that the detective needed, the only way he got through the next day.

Leaning back down, John very softly pressed his lips to Sherlock’s. Or, he seemed to. Sherlock felt the faint tingle that accompanied all of John’s touches, the way it never fully connected, even the weight on his chest that did nothing at all to hamper his own breaths and movements. Still, it was something. A whisper of a dream, the only part of his living nightmare that he could cling to hold like a lifeline.

If the real John wasn’t here to be that lifeline, then dammit, he’d _make_ one.

And so he had.

His eyes closed for the kiss. When he opened them again, John was gone. The weight, the touch, the comfort, the _hope-_ gone. Disappeared to thin air, just like always. If only he really could drown himself in John’s eyes. Death, it turned out, was more pleasant than falling in love. And yet, one way or another, he was going to die from it anyway. He just wished he could do it on his own terms. Sherlock couldn’t imagine a life without John at his side. He supposed- given the circumstances- he didn’t have to.

When the universe wanted him dead, it hardly seemed good manners to argue.

But there was a proper time to die. That time, for Sherlock, was not in a drug den where an ambulance would be called only _after_ everyone had cleared out (if anyone noticed anything wrong in the first place). It was not when his body had no identification on him and he would be taken to the morgue, identified, and _that_ was how everyone would find out. His proper time to die did not include needles and the drugs he was supposed to have been clean from for over four years, did not include Molly being the first to know, then Mycroft, then Greg, then- if heaven was smiling upon him- John.

His proper time to die did not include doing it to himself. Not that way again. Never again.

And so Sherlock did not do anything with the loaded syringe tucked up against the filthy mattress his body was sunk into. He let his fingers reach out and brush over it, let the buzz of his current high make the smooth, cool glass feel like a promise of peace, let the wave of the idea of _death_ rush over him and across him and through him. But the moment passed. Sherlock withdrew his hand. He turned his body as best he could, awkward and heavy and slow, shaking as he tugged his hood up and over his greasy, lifeless hair.

Steady, quiet breaths breezed over his chapped lips. Eyes closing, the detective- no, the druggie- allowed himself to relax, sink back into the mattress despite the strain on his back, despite the odd angle of his legs, despite the fact it put the rest of the room where he could not see it. Not that keeping an eye on things would do much. This was a doss house- not a crime scene.

“Isaac? Isaac Whitney?”

Sleep had almost pulled Sherlock under when he heard it. At first he didn’t recognize the noise, the voice too coherent to be any of the others in the room. The lilt was familiar as well… And then it hit him.

_John._

The soft footfalls of the doctor drew near. For a moment, he thought that John was going to drag him up or that maybe this was just another hallucination, a different version of the good doctor. Perhaps a punishing one, considering he wasn’t calling his name. Why though? And who the hell was Isaac Whitney?

“Isaac?” A pause. John’s presence came infinitely closer. “Hello, mate.” He could tell from the level of his voice that the older man was crouched down, from the proximity that he was likely beside the mattress laid out a few feet away from Sherlock’s own. “Sit up for me? Sit up.”

Sherlock almost obeyed his voice automatically. No. This was not a hallucination. It couldn’t be. He could feel the faintest bit of heat from John, could practically imagine the face that he’d kept so close, had memorized so well during his two year self-exile that it hadn’t faded the slightest bit, not even for his hallucinations.

“Doctor Watson?” another voice- presumably Isaac Whitney’s- asked, wobbly and heavily slurred.

“Yep.”

“Where am I?”

Sherlock very nearly grinned with the reply. Only the tug of pain in his chest, coupled with faint elation at being able to see John again after a _month_ , stopped him. “The arse-end of the universe with the scum of the Earth. Look at me.” He could imagine the way John would check the boy over. The boy, because Sherlock had paid _some_ attention to his surroundings upon coming in the drug den, and the kid next to him had to have been maybe sixteen or seventeen. It wasn’t a situation that was foreign to Sherlock. Having someone come looking for him was just as familiar.

“Have you come for me?”

Had he?

“D’you think I know a lot of people here?” The detective felt a little dismayed at the question, and even more at the laugh that awkwardly hung in Isaac’s mouth. “Hey, alright?” he asked, ever the worried doctor. That was enough waiting. John wasn’t going to be pleased; John was going to be outright _furious_ , but in that moment, Sherlock didn’t care.

He grabbed the syringe he’d set down and tucked it underneath the mattress. No need for the good doctor to see the evidence of his use plain as day. If he managed a bit of wiggle room- if he thought of a plan… Ah! Yes, there was that Magnussen business, wasn’t there? It would be a good enough reason. A good enough distraction. A way to throw John off the blatant, ugly trail.

When Sherlock opened his eyes, he was greeted with a vision of Not-John sat down beside him, folded awkwardly between the mattress and the dank, moldy wall. Not-John looked sad but relieved, his mouth quirking up ironically. _Guess that really was the last time,_ Sherlock thought, offering a tight-lipped smile in return. End of the road for Not-John and their not-touches and their not-kisses.

He hoisted himself and twisted around, dragging his hood down to reveal his face. There he was. _John._ Dread and delight filled him in a nauseating mixture. He was very glad he’d not ate anything for the past two days. It would have been expelled here.

“Ah. Hello, John. Didn’t expect to see you here.” The soldier’s shoulders tightened; the muscles in his back grew taut, and for a moment, Sherlock had half the thought that the man was to turn round and punch his lights out as realization hit him. John turned, and his expression was so much different than Not-John. He almost wished he could have Not-John instead. _Almost._

Instead, he simply grinned, thick lips pale and eyes squinting against the daylight seeping in through the dirty window. Not-John, no matter how perfect he seemed, would never be John. And in the end, he’d rather spend another hour with angry, hurt, _disappointed_ John than a lifetime with loving Not-John.

“Have you come for me too?”


End file.
